Chapter Five

Five

I t's a long drive, but the silence in the car is not tense—it's comfortable, expected. We have nothing to say to each other; no need to impress or build a friendship. We are just two people sharing a ride to get something done. No big deal.

I don't feel that Erik is angry at me for forcing him out of the apartment on a Sunday evening for a boring shopping trip. I guess this is so far from what a date usually looks like that it doesn't even bother him. Maybe he is already getting used to my presence. Maybe we will grow so indifferent to each other that we won't have any weird feelings being in the same room.

Once we are inside the store, I quickly discover why he was okay with coming along. He needed something from here. I almost laugh at having a confirmation of my earlier thoughts.

He puts a few hangers and kitchen utensils in the shopping cart as we walk around. It's a huge place with lots of departments, and I marvel at the immense selection and the reasonable prices. Like Erik, I start to grab a bunch of things that will be useful at home. We share the same shopping cart, but he doesn't seem to mind.

When we reach the floor with the showrooms, I point at an elegant living room and ask, "Did you design your room based on something you saw here?"

"My mom helped me decorate the apartment. She's an architect."

I smile. "Oh. That explains it. And what does your dad do?"

We walk slowly, looking around like the many couples surrounding us. Except we are not a couple, and we never will be. And we are not arguing over cabinets and carpets or running after yelling children.

A little white-haired boy grabs my long skirt, hiding from his big sister. I smile at him and politely detangle myself as the dad comes running down the aisle, shouting at his wife, "We are not getting those!" I look back and see her dump something in their cart, saying, "Yes, we are!"

"My dad is a physics professor," Erik answers my question with serenity, as if the lives of families and partners are not being built—or crumbling—all around us.

"Do your parents live in Copenhagen?" I ask as we enter the children's department, moving with the flow. Erik is a private person, but if we're living together, I want to know more about him.

"No, they live in Jutland, near Aarhus. Do you know where that is?"

I nod. I studied Denmark's geography before coming, and Aarhus is the second biggest city. "I've seen some pictures. It looks cute there."

He agrees, smiling. "I was born there and moved to Copenhagen when I started my bachelor's."

"Do you have any siblings?"

"A younger sister who lives in Amsterdam." For a moment, I think he won't ask about my family, but when we turn the next corner, entering the area with the bedrooms, he says, "What about you?"

"I have a big, noisy family," I tell him, smiling. "My mom is a hairdresser, my dad is a high school gym teacher. I have a brother three years younger than me who lives in Rio, a grandpa, two aunts, four uncles, and too many cousins."

As if my family had been listening, ready to make a dramatic appearance, my phone rings. I look at the time—7:30 p.m. In Brasília, 2:30 p.m. It's my mom's usual time to call, when she takes a break in the salon.

I reject the video call. I'm writing her a message to say I'm not home when she calls again. I show the phone to Erik: Call from M?e over a selfie of my mom smiling at the camera with her 7.4 Copper Gold Blond short bob. I suggested it. The color matches perfectly with her warm brown eyes.

"See?" I shake the vibrating phone in front of him, laughing because this is so typical of Rosana Carvalho, calling and calling again. "This is my family. They think I must answer their calls no matter what I'm doing, because I owe them now that I moved across the ocean."

"I can see where you got it from. The persistence." He eyes me, serious in his sarcasm, but it gets a smile out of me.

I answer the call because my mom won't stop disturbing me. I put on headphones so the whole store won't have to hear her say, "Sol, minha filha! Já estava ficando preocupada!" Which directly translated means, "Sol, my daughter, I was getting worried!"

"Oi, M?e," I say with a half smile and move away from the frame for her to see that I'm in a store. "I'm here to buy a bed, so I can't talk right now," I say in Portuguese. My mom speaks zero English.

"A bed? Did you find an apartment?" Her voice is so loud I suspect Erik can hear it through my headphones. I lower the volume.

"Yes. I moved in today."

"And you didn't think to tell us?" She sounds outraged. If I'd found an apartment in Brasília, or anywhere else in Brazil, she'd be there as fast as public transportation would allow, with as many bags of food and utensils as she could carry. Denying her that, or even the knowledge that I moved, is to my mom like excluding her from my life, and she wants to be involved .

"Sorry, Mom. It all happened so fast, and I didn't want to jinx it. I was going to tell you tomorrow when I was settled."

Mom nods slowly. "It's fine. I understand."

And from one second to the next, the indignation is gone, replaced by her typical motherly enthusiasm—which goes hand in hand with her instinct to tell the world what her daughter has accomplished.

"Girls, Sol found an apartment!" she shouts to the women behind her—some having their nails done, others with caps on their heads. One of my mom's loyal customers, Edna, a divorced sixty-five-year-old lady who goes to the salon every other week to straighten her hair or dye her roots, lowers the beauty magazine she is reading and waves at the screen.

"Hey, Sol! Congratulations, dear!"

"Let's not celebrate yet!" Mom says. "Sol, you need to give us some details."

I bite my lip. Oh dear. I didn't want to have this conversation in the middle of a home goods store.

"I'll call you when I get home, okay? I have to—"

"Ah, Sol, now you'll tell us all about it!" My cousin that works at the salon, Luana, takes the phone out of my mom's hand and sits with it on the couch. Other women gather around her, including Luana's younger sister and my former roommate, Mariana, my mom, and my teenage cousin, Bruna, who is often there doing her homework while waiting for Tio Ant?nio to pick her up after work.

"Do you live alone, Sol?" Bruna asks me. She is sixteen and already dreaming of the day she can leave her parents' house. Like me, Bruna can't stand crowded homes, especially when the people living in them have little care for privacy and introversion. I should feel lucky that Erik is so mindful about personal space.

"Do you, Sol?" someone is asking me. Mariana, maybe.

"How much do you pay? Is it near the city center?" a customer I don't recognize asks.

"Copenhagen must be a dream city!" Another unknown voice.

"Sol, you don't live alone, do you?" says Edna.

"The person I live with is nice," I say, taking a quick glimpse at Erik. He is a few steps ahead of me, looking at some boxes on a shelf.

"Is she a student? What is her name?" Mom asks.

I used the word "person" to avoid gender, which is a hard thing in my language. But I can't escape now. I don't lie to my family.

"Erik. No, he's not a student."

WRONG ANSWER, WRONG ANSWER— their stares scream at me like a wailing siren. My face becomes hot.

"Are you living with a man ?" My mom is literally shouting now. While her expression is shocked and disapproving, the other women have more amused reactions. Some laugh, some clap, and others tap each other as if they have already made a bet about me. I roll my eyes.

"Calm down, all of you." I'm so glad Erik can't hear or understand this conversation...

But wait, what if he speaks Portuguese? Or some Spanish? He's been to South America. He might have lived in Portugal. I must watch what I say.

"I knew she would find someone quickly! With those big dark eyes and that smooth olive skin of hers..." Edna says to Regina, another customer I know, as if I'm not hearing. "Not to mention the beautiful ombré you gave her, Flor," Edna says to my favorite hairdresser.

"Thank you, Edna! It indeed looks lovely on her!"

"Girls, I am NOT dating him, okay? I needed a place urgently, and a guy was renting out his spare room, and that's it!"

"I believe her," Mariana says. "I helped Sol look for apartments in Copenhagen online when she was here, and we couldn't find anything."

"Precisely," I say, glad for the support. "Thank you, Mari."

"What's he like? Show us a picture!"

"Is he there with you?"

"Erik... I like that name."

I lose track of who is speaking. Too many women at the same time. I answer, just so they can let me go find my bed. Erik will get annoyed if I don't focus on it soon.

"Yes, he came to help me buy a bed."

"I want to see him!"

Erik is right ahead of me, about four steps away as we walk along the aisle. I flip the camera so they can quickly see his back.

But that is, of course, a mistake.

They can spot an attractive man miles away.

I should have noticed that his muscles are quite prominent even in a sweater.

"Oh my God, he's so sexy!" Luana squeals.

"Let me see, let me see!" Bruna moves closer to the camera, but they are all fighting to have their noses on the screen.

"You are living with this man, Sol?" my mom reacts, and her tone announces her conflicting emotions. She wants her daughter to find a handsome man capable of producing beautiful grandchildren for her, but she fears losing me to a guy who lives on the other side of the planet.

"I love a man bun!" Mariana says when she sees Erik's long hair, now with only the upper half twisted up in a knot.

"Oh, what hair! It's gorgeous! Look at all the tones of blond," Flor comments dreamily.

"I want that color!" Regina says, pulling the phone toward her. My mom takes control of it again and walks from woman to woman so they can all see Erik closely.

"His hair is natural," Luana's voice says. "You can never copy it perfectly."

"Sol, is he your boyfriend?" my mom is asking. Not severe, just serious. She wants the truth.

I'm controlling myself, not wanting to shout or end the call without another word. As annoying and intrusive as they might be sometimes, they all love me and mean well. Besides, I've learned to tackle things with humor. To tease and be teased.

"No, he is not, and I mean it," I say firmly, but with a suggestive smile. They laugh and I laugh back, reassuring them that I am not lying.

"Hey, Sol, what about this one?" Erik turns his head, and they get a glimpse of his face—and all the beard. I lower the camera a bit, afraid he will realize I'm filming him.

"Well, that's it, girls. I have to buy a bed now."

"So, you don't sleep in his. Hmmm..."

"Don't buy one! Share one with this Greek god..."

" Norse god."

"He looks just like Thor!"

"See you, girls!" And I end the call.

Phew.

I focus. Or try to. It's hard when, in my head, I can still hear an entourage of squealing women telling me how hot my roommate is.

He's not my type though. I want a Prince Charming—someone sweet, romantic, stable—not a Viking. They are wild, rough, aggressive, and likely to run off on a whim to fight a battle. They aren't family men. With them, it's all about the fun, and they won't hesitate to use their seduction skills to get what they want. So, yeah, I keep Vikings away from my bed.

But can he keep me away from his?

I repress this weird thought and concentrate on the bed. Yes. The bed. A good bed to sleep in. Alone. All by myself.

We find a suitable one. A queen because I'm spacious. And I don't intend on being all by myself for all my years in Denmark.

The store is closing in ten minutes. We take the elevator down and push our cart through the storage hall, brimming with cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes. We finally find the correct shelf, but to our dismay, it's empty.

We run to find help. The saleswoman tells me they will have to deliver the bed to me tomorrow. I sigh and give her my address. Erik and I pay for our stuff separately and go back to the car.

We drive home silently, and the dreaded moment comes. Once we enter the apartment, he looks at me, deep in thought. My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty. What do I expect he'll do?

It's in his hands now. Letting me sleep on the floor or...

"You can have my bed if you want," he offers casually, like it's not something he avoided saying at all costs. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"Erik, I don't want to disturb you. I can just—"

"Relax, Sol." When he passes by, he taps my shoulder, and I feel so weird about this whole situation, I stand at the entrance for a few seconds, processing it all.

He is not a jerk after all.

Well, a little bit. But not too much. I guess.

I put on my pajamas—a set of pink silky shorts and a matching top, and it's only then that I realize my sleepwear is a bit on the sexy side. I don't own a set with long sleeves and pants. It's been on my shopping list, but it isn't winter yet, and my duvet is quite warm.

Besides, I thought that when I finally slept in a Danish man's bedroom, I wouldn't be trying to hide from him.

The last time I was in a guy's bed was almost a year ago, in Brazil. I synced up with my cousin Luana to pretend I was sleeping at her place so I could avoid my parents' questions.

It wasn't as if my mom didn't want me to find someone—quite the opposite. While Dad was a hound protecting his little girl, Mom would embarrass me with unsolicited advice. She was always introducing me to the church men, the ones she'd call "the good catches." The two I ended up dating were far from godly—and not in the way you'd want them to be.

I came here promising myself I'd be an adult woman at last, with an active and healthy sexual life. As I prepare to go to my sexy roommate's bed, however, the only "active" thing in my life is my un healthy decisions.

I carry my duvet and pillow with me as I move toward Erik's room, and he makes space for me as he holds the door open. I try not to look at him so this doesn't become more awkward than it already is, but I feel his gaze on my body. Is he looking at my butt? My legs are quite exposed...

The bed is ready for me, his blankets and pillows lying on the couch. I lie down carefully, feeling odd and uncomfortable, and cover myself up to my neck. When Erik goes to the bathroom, I look around the dimly lit space. It's cozy in a way I won't be able to make mine, at least for a while.

He has many vintage travel posters on the walls, most of them including beautiful tropical beaches. I find Rio, and that makes me smile. A piece of home in a foreign place...even though Rio is over six hundred miles away from where I grew up.

I'm six thousand miles away from home now.

When I think about that, I feel small, happy, and a little lonely at the same time. But when I talk with my family and friends like I did today, the distance feels like an illusion.

Like how I can be in Erik's room, in his bed, and yet be so far away from him.